


und betriebsam ist das dumme Herz

by phantasma



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Expressionist Film, Freudian Slips, Gen, M/M, Music, Weimar Germany, conqueror of shamballa, cultural historical musing, deliberate mild anachronism, exploration of time place space identity, mention of Al - Freeform, period situated homophobia racism ableism antisemitism, platonic Edward & Alphonse, reference to WWI, reference to nationalism, use of noncanon characters with focus on canon characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26795617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantasma/pseuds/phantasma
Summary: He should be, perhaps — at any given moment — but he’s just not ready to let go.  / three technologies — a photograph, a silent film, and a gramophone; two young men; one bustling southern metropolis in the unstable earlier days of the Weimar Republic. please see the end of the work for footnotes!
Relationships: Edward Elric & Alfons Heiderich, Edward Elric/Alfons Heiderich
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	und betriebsam ist das dumme Herz

It’s the first clear day in what feels like an eternity, a reprieve from the persistent rain that’s been clinging like the chilly ghost of winter to even the wisteria climbing the walls down the street and around the corner from their flat. It even snowed the Sunday prior, and that was a sight, those flakes of white resting gently on light purple petals and instead of inspiring beauty — for it was delicately beautiful — arousing profound annoyance. The sharply alternating temperatures and dry-then-dampness make Edward’s joints ache, both the real and artificial.

No matter. Today the sky is blue — not Amestris-blue, but blue enough to brighten even the greyest of Munich’s damnably identical buildings in their more residential quarter, and of course to contrast the reddish rooftops in the city center. Edward’s even come to like those when they look more vibrant. They seem to give the place more life. In this blue sky today there are almost zero clouds— a condition that in a short time turns appreciation into the slightest amount of irritation. Shifting the packages to be cradled by only one arm, Edward reaches up to loosen his collar a little as he steps out of the throng of the Viktualienmarkt(1) and continues down the cobblestones in a somewhat random direction. It’s not often that he has a free afternoon, that it coincides with fair weather, and that it happens to align with a pleasant mood. 

It should be a fine day, he thinks, rummaging for a bread roll — one of the soft white ones, not the dark ones or the ones with seeds, the kind Alfons prefers and will likely want for dinner, or perhaps for breakfast tomorrow if he goes out for dinner tonight. He winces reflexively at the rustling of a few of those precious seeds coming dislodged at the tips of his fingers and trickling down the bag, but he manages to fish out the right roll all the same. Maybe they will both go out for dinner tonight — if all goes well. If all goes well.... if it is a good day. 

The city center is somewhat packed for a weekday afternoon; perhaps the good weather’s drawn everybody out. Bristling slightly at being jostled on the crowded walkway, Edward lets his legs carry him onward, feeling too restless to stop in any of the cafes — besides, he just picked up groceries! — or linger at any of the shop windows, though the thought of something new to read is tempting. Unconsciously content to be with that which he already possesses, he strides forward for an absent-minded quarter hour, until he reaches the edge of the largest park in the city, the English Garden. 

To be perfectly honest, he’s not quite sure exactly what makes it an English Garden and not a German Garden — ahem, a _Bavarian_ Garden — or hell, even an Amestrian Garden, though the latter thought encourages a bit of a laugh, because it’s a little daft. _Don’t think there was a green space this big in Central.._. though perhaps it wouldn’t have been that bad of an idea. Eager now to take reprieve from the sun and shrug off his jacket, Edward steps off of the path and trods through the grass until he reaches — thank whomever — a glorious patch of shade. Letting first the paper grocery bag fall with a thunk (damn it— probably the apples bearing the brunt of that landing), Edward splays out his coat and then lets himself drop onto it, rolling onto his stomach and stretching out.

This is... surprisingly nice. He considers rolling his sleeves up, but decides against it, shifting instead to fold his arms so as to rest his head atop them. Yeah, this is nice. Watching at first nothing, then the way the grass most immediately in front of him sways in the breeze, he allows his gaze to shift and refocus like the lens of a camera to watch one goose snip aggressively at another, startling a pair of young people who had been walking by... 

Probably it might be past time now. He could pull out his watch, but that would require movement, and he’s disinclined to give in to that just yet — funny, he’d felt so fidgety just a moment before... But then, well, he didn’t sleep well last night. He’d dreamt something strange again, not exactly something frightful but enough to shake him awake and keep him there, no matter how much the warmth of the bed and the body beside him (a slightly more recent development) unknowingly and quite naturally did their best to coax otherwise... It’s good that Alfons didn’t also stir awake. He was a bundle of nerves the whole evening prior, going through his papers again and again. This interview could mean big things for them, if they accept him. That they were asking for a technical demonstration along with the intake interview felt like a good sign... It was a good opportunity for Alfons, anyway, especially to have the chance to show off a bit on his own. Edward did not quite recognize it himself, but outsiders would remark that his — what could you call it? some said eccentricism, others genius, others queer temperament — whatever it was, it sometimes stole from Alfons — mild-mannered, diplomatic, wicked smart in his own right, but a quiet, integrious sort — the spotlight. 

Firma Claussen AG was looking for someone who could complete a short term project — someone with the right documentation, the right mannerisms, and maybe also the right face... in addition to the adequate skill. Honestly, Edward was a little suspicious that it would be work below Alfons’ capabilities, but it did pay fairly, and that was enough to encourage pursuing it. It was clear, however — he always wore his emotions so plainly on his face, though Edward never saw them for what they were completely — that Alfons was nervous about whether or not it was fair. Edward, oblivious to Alfons’ furrowed brow or pencil-tapping, did pick up the less avoidable manifestations of his flatmate’s ethical conundrum and anxieties: namely scattering notes and books and schematics and leaflets all over the bedroom and kitchen equally, then shoveling them all together and sorting and re-sorting them... This had to be some kind of psychological compulsion. Otherwise, Alfons was the more practical and orderly of the two of them... not that either had been keeping score. 

Thinking even abstractly of books and papers makes Edward again want to read. For lack of a theoretical text or even a novel, he reaches to pull his notebook out from within the folds of his jacket. It’s an old habit, but he encodes what he writes in here— all of it, whether it pertains to Edward and Alfons’ joint business, or — and especially if — it has to do with his own research on the methods he might use to get home. On the latter subject, it’s almost entirely certain that no one would be able to understand them anyway— and yet... 

“—That has to be him, who else has such identifiable—” 

“What on—“ 

“Elric! We” (who on Earth is _we_?!) “thought it was you! Well, hullo there!” 

In veritable panic, alarmed that he could allow someone to sneak up on him at all, let alone tug on his hair, _of all things!_ , Edward whirls around and shifts to balance on the balls of his feet, ready to fight back— 

“What the hell?” he demands, squinting against the sunlight to find... a most unwelcome specimen staring down at him, a young woman by the name of Magdalena Keller, preferred name Magda, formidable and coy, almost like... as if a certain bastard had been a woman... She could banter well enough, Edward discovered at a gathering after a chemistry lecture he’d attended a few weeks ago, while Alfons went to a physics one separately. Until they could afford to enroll in the university properly, this was a compromise: to maximize their time, they’d go alone and then fill each other in at home. It was kind of nice to learn from one another when it was something new... or grumble a little to a sympathetic audience if it was less fruitful than they’d hoped. 

Magda was an unexpected favor to this process. Though she hadn’t by any means followed Edward to his home (thank god), it seemed like she was turning up left and right nowadays. Perhaps he should have been expecting her.

“Pardon the interruption. Mind if we join you for a little?” a milder voice asks — a second girl waits at a distance, in greater possession of her social graces— or maybe just a little more awkward still. 

“You looked like you were about to take a swing at me for a second,” Magda quips, arranging her thick red-blonde plait to rest neatly over her plaid-clad shoulder as she takes a seat, inviting herself, apparently. With annoyance, Edward thinks: _By all means, go right ahead._

Though then he feels a rush of embarrassment. What, was he going to clock every person who had the audacity to tap his shoulder, going forward? It could’ve been anyone, a moment ago... even Alfons. But that was exactly it. It could have been anyone: it suits him to keep his guard up, even here. 

Edward sits back with a huff. Usually quick to bite back, he hesitates for a half-second and loses the opportunity. 

“This is Juliane,” Magda says, gesturing for her friend to also sit down onto Edward’s jacket. “Jule, Elric.” 

Juliane quirks an eyebrow, but reaches out a hand, which Edward takes with his left. They share a slightly awkward movement that’s part handshake and part something else (an avant-garde re-imagining of a classical dance initiation?) as she sits while still holding onto him. 

“Edward Elric,” he supplies, lest she begin to believe his family name is his given name. 

“Elric’s interesting,” Magda asserts conversationally, as if she were observing an experiment but also remarking on the weather. “A mechanical engineer, a chemist, an electrician— seems like every time we cross paths, he’s in another role, the renaissance man… or shape-shifter.” 

“Are you a student?” Juliane inquires. She reaches back to pull a small leather satchel onto her lap, out of which she takes a well-worn notebook. Undoing the string closing, it falls open easily where a pencil marks the last place— looks to be a sketchbook. Edward doesn’t mean to be nosy; he’s just drawn to books always, like a magnet to metal, so he can’t help glancing at it, even upside-down. 

“No, not officially,” he replies. 

“You’d think otherwise with the way he haunts the university!” 

“The lectures are open to the public,” Edward retorts. 

Magda lets it drop. Instead, she reaches out to brush one of Juliane’s tawny brown curls behind her ear, which, Juliane’s attention now trained on her sketches — looks like she’s picking up on a scene she’d been drawing elsewhere in the garden — she doesn’t take note of. Magda’s got honestly no sense of boundaries, which is funny — and yet somewhat expected — given her career aspirations. Coming from a family of lawyers, she prefers to strive for a future in journalism, which suits both her precision and her persistence. It seems like details don’t get past her, which is probably what drew her to Edward… though then again, it isn’t like he blends into the background particularly well. Looking at her at an angle now as she continues to watch Juliane’s pencil move, round tortoiseshell frames partially obscuring and also accentuating her green eyes, with the coloring and the swoop of her nose, Edward realizes that she reminds him a bit of Sheska… if Sheska had been a bolder personality. Or at least a more forthcoming one. Or perhaps a more demanding one. 

As if to demonstrate this latter point, she abruptly reaches over Edward’s lap to take in hand his own notebook, which he had left resting at a short distance behind him. 

“Oho, what’s this?” she asks, tugging at something jutting out of one of the uneven edges; Edward had tucked quite a few loose notes and articles into his notebook, to copy if they were worth keeping, so something must have jostled as she grabbed it; narrowing her eyes, she amends, “Or who’s this?” 

With rising mortification, Edward ascertains that what she has in hand is, in fact, not a note or article clipping, but a smallish black and white photograph — one of the ones from the set Alfons had taken at the automat the other day to submit with his application. A horrified lurch— did this mean that Alfons’ application was incomplete? But no — there were multiples — this must have gotten stuck to Edward’s papers when Alfons was moving things about last night — 

“A— photograph,” he affirms with intonation more inclined to asking ‘can’t you see with your own eyes?’, buying time. Why would a man be carrying around a photograph of another man, let alone… 

“Aha,” Magda accepts without evaluation, though it’s clear she’s turning the answer over in her mind. “Here, Jule— you wanted to do a portrait, didn’t you? Try this.” 

Sheepishly, Juliane looks up from her landscape sketch. “Oh, you don’t mind?” 

At this point, it would draw suspicion to become fussy about it, so Edward shrugs. “It’s… well, whatever.” 

“— Thanks. This is homework due this afternoon, and I sort of got carried away and forgot about it, so your…” a pause, like she’s trying to fill in the blank, but then she capitulates to the easiest empirical descriptive, “your photograph’s going to a good cause.” Edward must have pulled a face, because she’s quick to add, “I’ll give it back! Just a moment.” 

What a ridiculous circumstance… honestly, how he allows himself to get into these situations… it’s either shameful or remarkable. He must be slipping, going soft or complacent as time goes on… he doesn’t remember being so easily distractible a few years ago.

Magda launches into some story about a politician and a low-grade legal scandal that was — apparently — overblown into a greater one than it was worth due to poor handling by two separate newspapers eager to break the story first. She goes on about the integrity of the press, about those who aim to discredit it, about the rising inflation, about Communism. Edward listens to this briefing and then treatise with only half of his attention, and only partially due to being distracted again by the present circumstance. This place is on the brink of something— anyone could see that, even someone so thoroughly an outsider as Edward himself. And yet from that vantage, it’s difficult to enter the conversation. It’s theoretical, after all. This isn’t his world, his country— while he can quite easily draw moral lines for his own actions or condemn those of others, when it comes down to Social Democrats versus Communists, he’s out of his league. 

Magda seems to be the kind of person who wants more active rhetorical partners; it’s a wonder she doesn’t stop bugging him in pursuit of any of the opinionated, sometimes downright arrogant young men so easy to find at the university... or of course one of the equally quick-witted women. Frankly, Edward can imagine a kind of satisfaction in putting those kinds of men in their proper place, especially if it’s the women — so often unfairly underestimated; this place seems behind Amestris in that way, still — doing the putting. 

“Almost done,” Juliane says, and there’s a metallic snapping sound that pulls Edward back out of his thoughts. He looks down to find that she’s taken out a watercolor set, and that the sketch is finished. It’s fine work— it does the person in the photograph justice, and yet... there’s something off about it... Edward narrows his eyes to look more clearly through this cloud of deja vu. 

“What’s his hair color? The boy in the photo, I mean,” Juliane asks, readying a brush. “If you like it, I can give it to you after I show my teacher — maybe you’ll want to give it away.” 

With this thought comes a swell of rising panic. He can’t say anything identifiable— 

“Brown,” Edward’s voice answers; his brain lags a moment behind. Suddenly without full possession of his faculties, he is a machine-man whose body has gone full machine. The words would seem like they were being said by someone else altogether if he weren’t able to feel his tongue and lips physically move. “Light brown...” 

“And the eyes?” 

“Brown, too, but almost grey... depending on the light.” 

Why is he doing this? Irregularly, his heart knocks against his chest, the palm that can do so is beginning to sweat and the other is feeling more and more foreign. It isn’t right to lie... is he lying? Who would know the difference? Would he even know? He _would_ know — he’s sure, he’s sure — if he were looking at Alfons, of course he would know; they’re separate people, after all, but what he means is— how would he know if this _other_ depiction were right, if his memory were right after... now, after nearly ten years... 

What a perverse experiment to try, what a play on human transmutation, to let art change one face into another, to test the upper limit of memory, let alone imagination… 

“Here, see.” She tilts her sketchbook, smiling, evidently pleased— and it is a fine sketch, the splashes of color look quite pleasing, but Edward feels guilt coming up to choke him, his airways constricting and his eyes beginning to burn. 

“Who’s this, anyway?” Magda asks, but Edward, desperate to get away before the tears — or, he fears, hysterics — get the best of him, is already scrambling to his feet, tugging the coat out from underneath the women abruptly and reaching to make sure he gets his notebook back (he does); to hell with the print out picture, to hell with the drawing. To hell... 

“Sorry, I just realized I’m supposed to be somewhere— I’m late for— That’s—” 

The woman exchange a bewildered look, but Edward’s already gone, the tunnel vision of panic or pain or grief and again, again the insurmountable indelible guilt, already feeling like it’s closing upon him, and he can feel that his face has become wet, see that the sky is still blue... hear the whispers of the answer that he wishes he could have said without issue, in addition to the second that he wishes were true: 

_In that picture… that’s my… no, in your sketch... that’s my brother._

It isn’t until he’s halfway home on the tram that he realizes he left the grocery bag behind. 

God damn. 

* * *

The cafe is cramped and dim and loud, music from the next room spilling over to join the din of background conversations at the closely packed standing tables surrounding them enough to require Alfons to lean in to Edward every time he wants to say something. Even when he straightens, his elbow keeps jostling against Edward’s arm — the curse of their opposite handedness and probably also the lack of chairs — and only after the hundredth apology does he accept that Edward doesn’t mind and stops muttering _‘Tschuldigung_ (2) after every other utterance. They could switch sides, but then they’d probably still be bumping against one another. At least this way, Edward can feel it. Of course they shouldn’t really touch each other in public — at least not in a regular old local cafe like this one — so if it’s like this, it’s stealthy and permissible, even if it isn’t exactly on purpose. 

After the strangeness of the early afternoon — an experience Edward files far back in his memory to potentially revisit later, but perhaps also to decidedly not — it’s a welcome reminder to be nudged again and again, as if to say, _Alfons is this one; Alfons is here._

Here he is, indeed; he’s been going on and on for the better part of half an hour about the interview earlier, and though of course Edward’s interested, he recognizes that he’s reached the point of the cycle at which it’s less a debriefing and more a panoramic display of Alfons’ myriad anxieties. It’s funny — if the two of them had actually been students, Edward’s sure now that Alfons would be the type to immediately run through every single proof and equation and rationalization and fret about it after an examination. He himself doesn’t fret so much; the result is enough of an evaluation, and usually — with the physical sciences, anyway, and not his alchemy — you have to wait for it. As impatient as he’s prone to being, there’s also no sense in preemptively getting worked up about it, isn’t it unscientific? For some reason, this mental image of student-Alfons mapped over present-Alfons — so critical suddenly, when he’s otherwise so collected — proselytizing about his calculus or thermodynamics or who knows what else makes Edward laugh. 

Alfons casts him a slightly crestfallen look. It was a fond laugh, but how’s he to know that? 

“I’m catastrophizing again, aren’t I?” 

“Sorry,” Edward offers with a sympathetic raise to his eyebrows. “I didn’t mean to laugh. No— no, really, I mean it— I just had a sudden image in my mind. I just— _you just_ — ” 

He falters, but whatever Edward had hoped his expression could share that his words could not is evidently received, because Alfons’ pale blue eyes narrow in thought and then widen a little with recognition, and then he coughs and makes a great show of reaching for his drink and staring into it, the faintest coloring high on his cheeks as he tries very hard to keep a straight face and not give in to a surprised, yet — aha, there it is — self-satisfied smile. 

Edward nudges Alfons’ elbow with his own on purpose this time, conspiratorially, now also pleased that they’ve shared a secret moment — one to a degree kind of unintended, or else perhaps his guard really has become so transparent… hmm, another piece of evidence to inspect and self-reflect on, much later.

A moment of silence lapses, but before either of them can take up the thread of conversation or attempt to strike out new territory for discussion, a group of men presses through the crowd and, with great relief, takes hold of the edge of their table dramatically, as though it were a lifeboat and they were long adrift out at sea. 

“This space still available?” one of them asks a little belatedly; one of his companions is already shrugging off his coat and the other has slipped away to order drinks. 

“Certainly,” Alfons says politely, shifting minutely to make room, though it’s more of a performative gesture and less a real possibility. If he were standing any closer to Edward he’d be on top of him. 

“You were saying, about that guy Wiene, I think— ” 

“Right, right — well, I’ll wait until Schäfer’s back. But you’ve seen _Caligari,_ haven’t you? _Caligari,_ 1920?”

“Hmm... “ 

“Why, I think we even went together, didn’t we? Come on, it hasn’t been that long, has it?” 

The interrogated man seizes an opportunity for think time by rummaging in his vest pocket to retrieve a cigarette case, which he extends toward Alfons and Edward invitingly, perhaps as an expression of thanks for allowing them to share their space, a hot commodity in such a small locale at this time in the evening. Edward reflexively pulls a face in distaste; Alfons declines with a head shake, _thank you._

“Suit yourself, boys. Wiene, Wiene… sounds like an idea for dinner. Where’s Schäfer with the drinks, anyway? Should have told him two _Wiener_ and a roll to go with it.” He chuckles in an exhale of smoke that makes Alfons stiffen, like he’s holding his breath suddenly but attempting to only subtly panic; Edward can feel it. 

“ _Prosit_ ,”(3) the apparent Schäfer announces, forcing space between the two other men to squeeze into the middle, dropping their beers with a slosh, and snatching the one man’s cigarette straight from his relaxed fingers. 

“Schäfer, you know Wiene?” the interrogator presses a second target. 

“Easy, Reincke, let me have a drink first, god almighty— ” 

Edward and Alfons exchange a glance. Alfons, apparently tentatively resuming his breathing, tilts his plate to offer Edward his last sausage; after a silent _you sure?_ and then a nod of confirmation _,_ Edward takes it. 

“ _Wiene_ , you know, _Caligari!_ ” 

“Reini’s been going on about this for ages, thinks I’m uncultured.” 

“Kowalski’s messing with you, Reincke — of course he knows Wiene. Everybody knows Wiene.” 

“Everybody knows Wiene!” Reincke, the first man, the film-fanatic, adjusts his spectacles and then gestures wildly and sweepingly, indicating the rest of the cafe either in exasperated justification or vindication, then looks desperately to the other end of the table. “You know Wiene?”

“Not personally,” Edward answers with sarcasm at the same time as Alfons says, “Sure,” mildly, which provokes a great laugh from Schäfer.

To be frank, Edward hasn’t the foggiest idea who or what ‘Wiene’ is supposed to be. If it’s not someone currently publishing on fringe rocket mechanics or the ‘archaic’ chemical sciences, it’s not really grabbing his attention nowadays… 

“It seems like they put pictures out left and right,” Kowalski complains. “I can’t keep track; don’t blame me. Didn’t he just release another one? Based on that thick Russian novel, what is it… _Crime and Punishment._ ” 

“Ah, _Raskolnikow,_ yes, you’ve read it?”

“God in heaven, no.” 

“Well, you’ve seen it?” 

“It’s another one of those… you know,” Schäfer takes a drag of his stolen cigarette and then waves it around vaguely. “Modern ones. With all the shapes in the background, very in vogue.” 

“Seems like everything’s ‘shapes in the background’ lately,” Kowalski concurs gravely, toeing the line between sincerity and irony. 

“Well, what I’m getting at,” Reincke presses on, “Is that he’s got another picture in the works. It’s supposed to come out next year. And this one’s really interesting. In fact, I’m just delighted because it’s based on a novel that I’ve read, a French one— ” 

“Ach, Reincke the _literateur—_ ” 

From Kowalski’s face, Edward infers that the sound he just heard was, in fact, Schäfer’s boot coming down hard on his toes. 

“It’s called — the book — _Les Mains d’Orlac —_ _The Hands of Orlac._ ” 

“Ooooh,” with mock-wonder, then: “— _Ouch._ Watch your feet, Schäfer!” 

“Watch your tone, Kowalski! I’m buying the drinks, aren’t I?”

“Go on,” Alfons encourages, though then his expression turns bashful when the trio go silent and turn on him. Edward can’t stop a smirk before it happens: it’s endearing, the way Alfons gets absorbed in something when his imagination takes hold of it. Leaning his elbows on the table like this, he almost looks like a child being told a story. 

“I mean— if you don’t mind. You’ve got me curious now.” 

Reincke clears his throat, looking quite pleased that he now has an attentive audience. 

“It’s about a pianist, Orlac— ” 

“No kidding— ” 

“— who, on the way home from a concert tour, is in a terrible train accident.” 

“You know, those can still happen. We feel so secure on those rails, but if an engineer pulls the wrong lever, or if some kind of debris falls onto the tracks… or if something happens with the boiler, or if one of the cargo tanks fails...” Kowalski ends with a low, sinister whistle. 

“And to think,” Schäfer concurs, “that some say that in a matter of years, there will be planes big enough to hold enough people as a train can. Think of the accidents then!” 

“Do keep away from ships, too, in that case,” Reincke snips. “Nevertheless, Orlac wakes up in hospital after his accident and finds— ” 

There’s a suspenseful pause. 

“That he’s lost both his hands in the crash!” 

“That’s not frightening,” Kowalski deflects. “Plenty of folks lost limbs in combat in the War.” 

“That’s exactly _why_ it’s frightening,you idiot,” Schäfer counters. “Look at how many of them can’t find work or can’t afford treatment or can’t even move. You see them crowding the city square with their signs, unless you walk around without your eyes in your head. Which, by the way, some of them do have to do. We’re lucky we came back whole, aren’t we.” 

“Our soldiers are heroes— you know that. Our soldiers who fought and were wounded for their country, and then returned to make their livelihood without begging or without giving in to drugs or self-pity— those patriots are our heroes. You know that. If anything, it’s offensive to make that comparison.” 

“At least a soldier knows more or less what he’s getting into. Imagine being a civilian and having your hands torn off suddenly. Kowalski, I didn’t realize you were so insensitive,” Schäfer rebuffs. 

Kowalski looks like he might make a grab for Schäfer’s collar— at the last second, he instead snatches back his cigarette. Though there’s not much tobacco left to burn, he takes a significant final drag before shooting daggers with his stare as he snuffs it out on the edge of Schäfer’s glass. 

“In any case,” Reincke presses on, “due to the fact that his hands are his livelihood, an effort is made to save them, but it fails. So, the doctors need to replace the hands… and use the hands of a murderer who had been executed earlier that day.” 

“Of a _murderer_?” Kowalski spurts. “ _Nein, danke._ No way I’d want a dead man’s hands on my living body. I’d rather be without hands!” 

Reincke rubs his temples at his companion’s constant need to be contrary. He raises his own — fully alive — hands, long fingers splayed out in hopelessness, and gestures that he’ll return in a moment, perhaps to save face in the washroom or to obtain another drink. 

“What do you think, boys? Dead man’s hands?” 

Alfons shifts a little, visibly uncomfortable. Edward purses his lips and leans his elbows forward onto the table. 

“Would you really rather go without them?” he challenges. Kowalski looks like the cowardly type; the kind to fold under pressure, who wants to make a stir but won’t follow through on it. Edward holds eye contact until Kowalski confirms this assessment; he shrugs noncommittally and reaches for his cigarette case. 

“Alright, then show me, without your hands, how you’d pick up that glass. How you’d button your shirt. How you’d comb your hair. How you’d eat with a fork. How you’d write. How you’d take out your wallet. How you’d,” Edward reaches across the table, lightning fast, to replay Schäfer’s trick from earlier, plucking the cigarette Kowalski had just procured right out from between his fingers. 

“—Hey—” 

“—light your cigarette? Or take it back?” Edward taunts, dangling it over his own glass, still half-full. 

“Edward!” Alfons hisses, but it’s too late. With a flick, Edward sends the cigarette flying toward Schäfer, who, too busy laughing heartily at this entire display, fumbles and instead volleys it into— 

—the newly filled glass held by Reincke, who’s returned at precisely the wrong moment, having apparently gone the drink route. 

“What the devil?” 

Schäfer laughs to the point of wheezing; Edward folds his arms and looks smug. Alfons gapes a moment, but then blinks back to life when Kowalski claps a hand against his shoulder, simply because he’s more closely within reach. 

“Your friend’s got good luck,” he grins, but it’s tight; his patience has been tested. 

“So what happens to old Orlac?” Schäfer asks. 

Reincke fishes the cigarette out with a fork and very gently lays it onto Kowalski’s plate, which earns him a grimace. 

“Well, the idea that the story explores is human nature… and the body’s role in nature’s game. You see, with the murderer’s hands comes the murderer’s drive to kill… Orlac, unwitting and then quite unwilling, but unable to resist, is at the mercy of his hands…” 

“Tch, that’s too much,” Schäfer waves dismissively. “That doesn’t make any sense. Hands don’t control your actions. Your head does. Unless his head was hit in that accident, it just won’t work.” 

“Well, I believe that’s also the case,” Reincke defends, but Schäfer exhales a great _pff_. 

“And you’ve got some taste in novels, Reincke. Between that and _Crime and Punishment._ Grim stuff.” 

“You’re too much of an optimist, Schäfer. I’m a realist— and I think it’s important to consider the borders of human morality— of humanity, even. I suppose I’m also a day-dreamer in that regard. I like to think about what’s possible.” 

“ _Humanity,_ hah,” Kowalski says bitterly around the (dry, this time) cigarette he’s been able to light without interruption. “We’re past humanity. Aren’t we? Think of those cripples I mentioned earlier. Think of _those people_ taking up space in our country. You know who I mean— I don’t even have to say it. It comes right to mind, because you believe it, too. We all believe it. And we wouldn’t be human if we let doctors sew other people’s body parts onto ours. We’d be monsters. Think of the contamination. Imagine if you had one of _their_ hands? What would you feel compelled to do? It’s as bad as being turned into a machine. Did you hear that? That there are some doctors who want to turn man into machines? You wouldn’t be able to tell, maybe, but they’d be walking among us— with machine legs, machine hands, monsters—” 

Static had begun to fill Edward’s brain as he listened to the man yammer on. As though his body were possessed by an external force for the second time today, he moves instinctively, precisely, but without conscious directives. When he returns to his senses, it’s at the sound of a crash, and he’s aware that he’s pushed past Alfons and rattled the table enough to send at least one glass whirling off onto the floor, to pull Kowalski down by his shirt collar. The fabric audibly strains; as it tightens around his neck, Kowalski, wide-eyed, spurts, his cigarette falling to scatter orange and grey ash onto the floor. 

“I didn’t get to finish my thought earlier, so allow me to continue. If you had to do all those things I listed without your hands, you would either learn — if you were a man of integrity and will, and you could — or you would go to people fucking smart and compassionate enough to be able to develop the tools to help you. And if you couldn’t access those people, it wouldn’t be your fault — it would be the fault of a society that refused to see the value of what _they_ possessed and took for granted, and what they saw you as worthless without. No one sits around in self-pity because it’s a party. People do the best for themselves when they’re given a fair enough chance and society doesn’t constantly tell them that their lives aren’t worth it.” 

Kowalski’s hands fumble upward to grasp at Edward’s while his grip continues to tighten during his speech; it takes a moment, but as he feels up and down before his fingers close around his forearm, his face pales with realization… about Edward’s right arm… 

“You…” he gasps. 

“You were right about only one thing,” Edward seethes. “And that’s that we’d walk around right in front of you without you noticing.” 

He lets go of Kowalski and shoves him aside into Reincke, who looks bewildered, and Schäfer, who looks — absurdly — as though he might be imminently brought to tears. 

“Come on, Alfons,” Edward says without looking or even reaching back, aware of many pairs of eyes on him as he presses through the crowd. 

They walk home in heavy, uncomfortable silence. 

* * *

Hours later, Edward is up reading and writing in bed when the door opens gingerly— yet with an audible crack. The hinge needs oil; it’s been on their to-do list for three weeks now, but neither of them have gotten around to it. In spite of the noise, Edward keeps his attention focused on his book, in the middle of a train of thought he’d like to see through to its end.

“You can put the electric lamp on, you know,” Alfons says softly. It takes a moment for Edward to look up, and he must appear to be only half-way comprehending, because Alfons nods toward the candle lit and placed rather precariously on one of the shelves above the bed. The wax is low enough not to catch anything aflame, but it still isn’t the most responsible setup. 

“It doesn’t use that much energy, if you’re trying to save us the cost. You’re going to strain your vision if you try to read in that light.” 

Edward rolls his eyes instead. “I didn’t want to stay up long enough to turn it off. Besides, I already took my leg off.” 

“May I?” Alfons asks, and Edward stalls a second before he realizes Alfons is asking in a bizarrely formal manner if he’s allowed to come into the room. 

“Sure.” 

Turning back to his book, he listens as Alfons steps closer, then feels as the bed sinks a bit with the added weight as he sits at the end, keeping his distance at first, but then reaching out to rest his palm on the first part of Edward he can reach, which turns out to be his leg, just below the kneecap. 

Now Edward closes the book around one of his fingers so he can take a look at Alfons properly. He’s facing toward the desk and the wall, his eyes moving like he’s reading something too, but Edward knows he can’t be; there’s nothing new there to read. In profile, he always looks much older than he is, Edward thinks— not in a bad way; actually, he looks pretty handsome. It’s just always those big blue eyes that give his age away. From this angle, with his nose and the way his hair falls, and his jawline and those delicate eyelashes, Alfons looks very much like _Alfons_ , and less like anyone else he might resemble, or anyone he could perhaps be… or would perhaps be… if… a set of given conditions had been different…

For the second time today — strange day, hasn’t it been? — Edward begins to feel himself choke up. It’s homesickness, he thinks, at first, yet again… and then it isn’t; it’s something else instead… something about this person in front of him, or _in this person,_ maybe, which sounds strange, too, strange and sentimental. 

“I should have said something earlier.” 

So that’s what Alfons was practicing. Like lines from a page— when he’s nervous, he tries to counter it with preparation. 

“They were just assholes,” Edward says, brushing it off. “Well, the one guy was. Guess it isn’t fair to lump them all together. And he got the point fast enough. I— ”

“Listen—” Alfons interrupts, raising his voice a bit, which catches Edward a little off guard. “I should have said something earlier.”

“I heard you the first time, Alfons, and I’m telling you it’s alright. Okay? If I got upset every time some jerk with their head up their ass thought they had something to say when they should’ve kept their mouth shut, then I—” 

“Edward, _please_.” He looks toward him, then, finally, but then glances away just as quickly. 

_Has he been crying…?_ Edward’s stomach lurches. 

“I’m trying to apologize. It wasn’t right for me to say nothing. Even if it also wouldn’t have been worth it to give him attention, and even if you’re used to it, it still wasn’t right for me to just stand there, frozen in place. What kind of man…”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with being a man,” Edward insists. 

“Then what kind of…” Alfons stumbles here, unsure for a beat, “ _friend…_ ” 

Ah… slowly, faintly… he’s starting to see where this is going. Edward shifts to sit up straighter, sliding his notebook into his book to mark the page and setting them both aside, then leaning forward a little so Alfons knows he has his full attention now. 

“If… if we’re going to do this, then I don’t think it’s fair for you to have to put up with that on your own.” Alfons says. He’s still saying all of this to the wall — albeit slightly more boldly and with less water in it — and he gives Edward’s leg a braver squeeze. “Please let me take some of it.” 

Edward’s brain lags just a bit behind, still stuck on the implications of _doing this_ — this being, obviously, whatever… arrangement they were now finding themselves in, and less obviously, whatever its parameters were. At this stage, it’s still more or less a trial by fire… 

What Edward _wants_ to do is to take the easier, well-traveled path out. He wants to insist that Alfons is being ridiculous, that he can handle it on his own, and he will handle it on his own, and Alfons really has no business worrying himself with it, especially since he probably had enough to worry about, what with their rent and the state of the economy and the government, all things that Edward didn’t know enough about or pay enough attention to… Wouldn’t it be fair for the balance to stay tipped as it was, even if it was a little uneven? 

However… for some reason… he can’t. Instead, he reaches out to take Alfons’ hand between both of his, the mechanical hand on the bottom and the flesh one on top.

“This is me,” he says quietly. “Both parts. There are some things I can tell you, Alfons, and there are some things I can’t share with you— I hope this is one of those things, anyway. So… follow my lead on this one. Sometimes it’s not worth it. You did see the scene I made, didn’t you?”

Alfons scowls. “Well, maybe it wouldn’t have gotten to that point if I’d told him to shut up. I wasn’t about to climb on the table.” 

“I didn’t climb on the table!” Now the criticism stings a little; he pulls back just a fraction, but Alfons holds his hand in place— the right one. 

“I didn’t mean that _you_ did,” Alfons counters testily; now they’re running up against the limits of his patience, something that happens quicker when the stakes seem very high and Alfons’ chances of success seem low. “I just meant that I could do with some practice in standing up for myself or others, and that _might_ have been the proper moment to do so, and _maybe_ that gentleman might have dropped it sooner when he realized that it wasn’t just one person not on his side.” 

Edward softens a little, letting their hands come to rest on the bed. 

“And by the way, you didn’t make a scene.” 

“Oh, no? What do you call ‘knocking glasses to the ground’ and ‘trying to choke people’ in your dialect, then? In public, you have to remember. It’s imperative that the phrase indicate that it happened in public. That’s an important detail for recreating the mental image.” 

They’re teasing each other now; Edward can tell, because even if Alfons’ face is set in comically stern lines — he’s probably still frustrated — he’s threading their fingers together all the same. 

“Please, worse probably happens every weekend when people like that start drinking the hard stuff. I thought that Kowalski fellow was going to punch the other two at a few different points throughout the conversation, anyway. Maybe it was a matter of time.” 

Edward laughs, but then he chances getting serious again, before the moment passes. 

“Honestly, though— you weren’t embarrassed? You weren’t thinking— that I’d proven his point?” 

Now it’s Alfons’ turn to whip around, affronted. 

“What? Edward, I’d never— I could never be embarrassed of you. I was the embarrassment, not you. I’m sure everyone was looking at me critically after that.”

Self-deprecating again; Edward’s almost moved to chastise, but it’s like Alfons catches himself faster. And now determined to display his confidence, he shifts so that he’s facing Edward completely once and for all. 

“I would never be embarrassed of you,” he repeats, “You’re…” and those pale blue eyes search his own, meaningfully, precisely, almost like a camera, like he’s capturing something precious that he wants to retain forever, and Edward feels some kind of heat spread out in the pit of his stomach and creep tingling up the back of his neck and onto his face and he wants to look away, but he also can’t— 

And then it’s over; they both lose their nerve, but Alfons turns first, to clear his throat and then cough into his free hand, then rub it a bit absently against his chest with a wince. Edward wonders if it was all of the cigarette smoke: not just from their volatile tablemate, but also from all of the tables crowded around them. These places were not quite known for their fresh, clean air. 

That night, with the candle long blown out and their conversation likewise long concluded, Edward turns the day over again in his mind. What was it that Alfons had tried to say to him earlier? _You’re…_ with an expression like that, it had to be something positive. He was very nearly looking at him as if he were made of gold. Thinking about it makes his face burn again, and he scrubs at it with his hand as though it could make a difference, and as though it mattered, since no one else could see him. Alfons is asleep next to him, lying on his stomach with his face turned against the wall, and even though they can’t see each other for their positioning and for the darkness, Edward can tell he’s sleeping by his breathing. 

They know each other, though in approximations. Edward feels that pitfall in his gut again when he thinks of the photograph, and then of the incident in the café, of the Magdas and Jules, the Schäfers and Reinckes and Kowalskis. Maybe they were only templates of people: bold women, calm women, cut-out men with either hearts or with minds or with— well, hands. Were they real? They had faces Edward didn’t know from elsewhere; they could just as easily be either unica or figments of his imagination. And yet he could see Kowalski’s body move against his when he had him by the collar; he felt Magda’s hands on his hair, even without seeing it; and he can hear Alfons breathe next to him now. Doesn’t that make them real? 

Again, he thinks of all of the people he gave up to come here, an eternally inequivalent, and furthermore involuntary trade. Perhaps one day he’ll introduce his brother to all of these people; he bets Magda would want to ruffle his hair and people like Schäfer might feel as though they were kindred souls, sensing Al’s noble heart. And Alfons and Al together would be a sight — sometimes, actually, the thought makes Edward feel as though, if it were ever achievable, he would certainly finally die from happiness, that that would be the way the Gate would finally overtake him… 

… And sometimes the thought makes him terribly, irreparably sad. It’s rather like one of those latter nights. A shudder starts suddenly and concludes with a sob; he freezes to make sure that he hasn’t woken Alfons, and when he confirms that he hasn’t, he shifts very carefully onto his side, then moves closer to rest his head against Alfons’ back— tentatively at first, then fully when it seems like not even that will wake him. 

Waiting out the nights alone can be terribly lonely; again he thinks of Al, of all of those years he couldn’t sleep. Edward doesn’t want to cry, but he can feel all of the day’s tears welling up again and pushing their way out, here in the safety of the darkness, the security of knowing that he won’t be seen and won’t have to explain himself, or worse, only half explain himself. That was what their conversation was earlier, wasn’t it? A half explanation, only at the edge of truth. Edward pulls the neckline of his shirt up to dab at his eyes so he doesn’t get Alfons’ shirt wet — that might lead to the need for another explanation, though once and again he’s woken Alfons up with nightmares, so it might not be a surprise. It isn’t like they haven’t seen each other's tears before, though they’re also just as quick to deny them, at least in words. 

Carefully, with control, Edward takes in a deep breath. He counts along with the very faint tempo of his watch, left on the drafting table… and when he finds himself calm, he turns back against Alfons, closes his eyes… listens to the rhythm of his breathing… or tries to. Something seems off; even training his ear to it, it’s not exactly discernible, yet still present, and attempting to mirror it only causes rising anxiety. Perhaps sensing this irregularity, Alfons clears his throat in his sleep, then coughs once. 

With unease, Edward thinks back again on his own words in their conversation, and he wonders whether Alfons has things that he can’t share with him, too. 

* * *

A few days later, Edward’s drinking cheap bitter coffee at the kitchen table when a loud _thud_ in the common hallway startles him enough to skitter his pencil right off the line he’d been writing. 

_What the…?_ he thinks, freezing a moment to listen more precisely. Could someone have fallen? Immediately Herr Koch from two doors down comes to mind; somewhere around sixty-five and stubborn, he had surgery recently — which Edward only knew from crossing paths with him at the clinic — and yet still insisted on carrying all of his bags himself after shopping, no matter who tried to intervene… (This was a whole country of hard-headed people, it sometimes seemed.) 

Then there’s not another thunk, but rather a hurried rustling at the door. Edward’s heart races a moment with an infrequent, yet nostalgically pleasant thrill— it almost sounds like someone’s trying to break in. But why? It can’t be that another neighbor is drunkenly at the wrong apartment; though it has happened, it’s far too early in the afternoon for that. It isn’t a holiday, after all. Edward’s curiosity and impatience, as well as desire to be proactive, get the best of him: he sends a glance about the room just to take stock of his choice of weaponry, should it be needed (heavy pan on the stove would be alright; closest, however, would be something from the coat rack or, hell, even the telephone; if they just hung up the pans properly right after washing them, they’d be within better reach; he’ll have to make that argument next time they’re both procrastinating) and then approaches the door. A second to listen and ready himself for a reaction; whoever’s out there is fumbling something again, sounds like something large— and then he opens the door— 

“Alfons?” he sputters at the same time as— 

“Edward—!” Alfons gasps, looking up at him with alarm through the fringe that’s fallen into his eyes, plastered to his forehead with sweat. He’s due for a haircut, but, like so many things, it’s been bumped low on the to-do list… 

“You’re— home?” he pants, short of breath from exertion, and Edward sees he’s doubled-over trying to hold steady a rather large crate balanced on his knee, or rather pressing it against the wall with pressure from his hip and trying to use his arms to keep it stable. That must have been what made that loud noise, earlier. “I thought you’d— be out still.”

“Good thing I’m not,” Edward muses, reaching for the crate, but Alfons pulls back in a panic. 

“Wait, wait— it’s— just give me a minute. Take this, or I’ll drop it.” 

He gestures with his left hand, dangling his keys, which he’d evidently been struggling to use correctly… hence the racket with the door handle. 

“I thought someone was trying to pick the lock.” He eyes Alfons’ precarious positioning once more, but then decides to trust him and back into their entryway instead, still watching him cautiously. Able to stand and balance the weight with both arms now, it seems he’s gotten it under control, and steps right past him, apparently eager to get whatever is in the crate inside directly. He drops it onto the countertop with a relieved sigh, then whirls around and leans his back against it… with exhaustion, Edward thinks, but then he walks into the kitchen and sees Alfons’ stance become more protective. 

“I have the wrong keys,” Alfons explains, deciding to address Edward’s last comment and not the question he’s asking with his eyes as he cranes to look at the box. Alfons pushes it back a little, shifting further until it slides against the wall. He lets out a nervous laugh. 

“It wasn’t that heavy— it’s just that I ran up and down the stairs with it a few times, from the cellar up here in the first place. And then I didn’t want to leave it in the hallway where someone could trip on it, so I had to bring it back down and up again when I realized I’d forgotten my keys, but then I suppose I must have taken Frau Gracia’s and not mine, what a pain—” 

“What is that?” 

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” he admits. 

“Well, you’re sure holding me in suspense.” Edward crosses his arms, but then decides to play along and shrug before returning to his coffee and notes, sliding the chair out and dropping into it, reaching for the mug and taking a sip — eugh, cold — and then facetiously thumbing through his papers, deliberately giving all of these things grave attention... trying to coax Alfons into dropping his guard… 

… He doesn’t quite take the bait, but he also doesn’t quite resist it altogether. He rolls up his shirtsleeves and pushes his hair out of his face with his forearm, then turns to his box, brushing some dust off the top and then aiming away sharply to sneeze into his inner elbow. 

“It was in someone’s storage for a while, apparently. Must have been an earlier test model, otherwise I can’t imagine how they’d have it and be able to put it somewhere long enough to get this dusty,” he glances at Edward over his shoulder, then smiles. “Belonged to a customer of Frau Gracia’s. Whoever it was — I didn’t get to meet them — said that it needs some work, but that it was functional at one time, so Frau Gracia thought that perhaps we’d know how to fix it up.” 

“Uh-huh,” Edward mutters, still feigning disinterest. It has to be something technical, but Edward would be hard pressed to imagine that one of the shop customers would turn up with an aircraft model, so… 

“Okay,” Alfons announces, having worked the lid off and set it aside. “You can come look.” 

Edward forgets his act and practically leaps to his feet. Behaving secretively still, Alfons stays squarely in front of the crate, facing toward it, so Edward has to lean into him to peer around him and inside. 

“It’s…” hard to determine at first; the lighting is poor at this angle, and with Alfons looming, and there are distracting wires and many things wooden and fewer things metal, but then he takes all of the component parts into consideration and can place them together. 

“A gramophone?” he says at the same time Alfons does — rushing his guess! — though the latter does so with more self-assured ending punctuation. 

“Yeah,” Alfons beams, beginning to pull out the crate’s contents, which scatters a few more clumps of dust. This is probably business not suited to the countertop. “It’s an electric one, even, but as you can see, it’s in quite a state of disrepair. Do you know how much these things cost? If I’m able to get it to work, it’d be marvelous.” 

“Huh,” Edward remarks, moving back to the table to push his materials aside to make room for the crate and its contents. Dusty as they might be, at least this way it’s a greater distance from their only cooking surface. 

The table evolves quickly into a gramophone workspace and stays that way for days. Alfons fusses over it like a man possessed, even when he comes home late from the Claussen job — that, at least, had been successful, and at the right time, as their meager savings had been running thin — he finds energy to tinker with it. Edward’s not really sure what to make of it: he tried to help at the beginning, but dropped it when it became clear that he didn’t have much expertise to lend, and also it seemed like Alfons wanted to do it alone. That tending toward a greater trend invited in a creeping, unwelcome sense of unease sometimes when Edward was home alone during the day, with Alfons running the Claussen sprint, Edward’s attempts to find a job of his own falling short, and his enthusiasm for the stuff waning… 

Sometimes it even makes him wistful for the summer prior, when it still seemed like rockets were promising, and the two of them were reading and drawing and building together, or even for the one before that— when they both met in Romania. Much has changed since then. His father’s disappearance, for one. And this change in his relation to Alfons, at once so warm and pleasant, and then again so… well, sometimes it felt like they were being pulled in opposite directions. Edward knew that would eventually happen: he knew that he would leave. And yet… it isn’t that pull. It’s a slower one, more gradual… one that gains strength when they’re apart, but evaporates when they’re together. The work is doing Alfons’ mind well, even if it’s hard on his body. He looks tired constantly, but won’t follow Edward’s advice to sleep early… and then there’s that cough, still persistent… But he’s bent on not trading his hobby for rest. At least that’s doing his spirits some good. 

One night Alfons explains that when he was a child, when his father was still alive, before the War, they had a kind of similar machine, though that one was called a phonograph instead, which apparently made a difference, and it played music using these cylindrical canisters onto which sound could be transcribed. Once, something in the machine had malfunctioned, and Alfons had taken it apart without asking, trying to fix it. 

“Were you able to?” Edward asks. 

“Well,” Alfons laughs. “Yeah, actually, more or less. I didn’t really know what I was doing— I just opened it up and once I saw all of the parts, I worked out how to fit them back together. I think it was more chance than knowledge or ability. I was only, hmm, probably five or six years old. I could’ve lost a finger to the gears easily. My father didn’t give me much of a reaction… He was more the quiet type. But then a short while later, a mechanical gramophone they had at the school — my father was a boys’ school teacher, I think I’ve mentioned — stopped working. So he brought it home. He left it out on the table and didn’t say anything, but I implicitly understood. Rather, I took it as permission… so while he was in town or at work, I tinkered with it. Took me longer, but I figured it out.” 

He pauses to look up from the stripped wires he’s twisting together and offers Edward a smile. 

“It wasn’t broken. It was just that the gears needed to be cleaned. All of the right parts were there, the structure for the mechanisms… they just needed a little attention.” 

His expression falls a little, a warm sort of sadness filling his eyes. 

“It was just that nobody had the time.” 

Hmm. Edward had thought about time a moment ago, before Alfons had started talking. He’d gotten so used to him working alone in the kitchen in the evening, and he also didn’t want to hover or be a nuisance, so he tended to do his own work in the bedroom, but today he felt like being close by for some reason, so he’d folded his arms on the table and laid his head down and lazily watched as Alfons hummed a little and busied himself with the machine. It was taking longer than Edward expected. Alfons didn’t seem to mind— in fact, Edward suspected that perhaps he was drawing it out for his own pleasure. Thinking of how long it takes to fix things here, Edward thought suddenly of a moment a few years ago… when he and Al were in Liore, and they knocked over that radio. That was an even more complex machine — Edward was surprised to find that radios weren’t as commonplace in homes here yet — and yet all Al had to do was etch a simple circle… 

When Alfons starts talking of his childhood — something he does only very rarely — Edward guiltily drops his thoughts about Al and the efficiency of alchemy. But then, it’s hard to imagine Alfons as a child — when he tries, he can really only think of Al with different coloring… 

From what Edward’s gathered, Alfons spent his early years mostly alone, save for his books and his thoughts... and his daydreams and goals. He has no siblings and both of his parents are already dead. That ties these two places, whether the connection is from Munich or London to Resembool or Liore— they each house two generations bound by being parentless, and by the senselessness of war. 

“You should go to bed,” Alfons suggests, glancing over at Edward. His eyes had drifted closed while he’d been listening. 

“Mm, that’s my line.” 

“I’m almost finished. I’ll forget where I am if I stop here. Besides, I can still keep my eyelids open,” he teases; even if he’s not looking, Edward can hear that smile in his voice. 

“Mm-hmm.” 

And then he hears Alfons shift a little… and then he feels a hand in his hair — gentle, tentative, as though making sure he won’t flinch away, which he doesn’t, even though it startles him just a little, but only because he couldn’t see it coming. It’s a very tender gesture; he pushes his fringe back from his face, thumbs the soft skin at his temple, and then, perhaps feeling a bit less inhibited with Edward’s eyes still closed, he bends down to press his lips to the same spot. His eyelashes flutter against his skin as he does; sensitive there, Edward squirms just a little and opens his eyes at last. 

Alfons moves to straighten, but Edward, overcome by this abrupt gesture of warmth, acts faster, reaching up to hook an arm around his neck and pull him in for a proper kiss. It isn’t their first time, but they’re still a little out of practice; Alfons freezes for a second before he reciprocates, sliding his palm down to rest on Edward’s back and deepening his touch before pulling away so they can look at each other properly. He’s got that expression again, the same one as the other night — the one that says that Edward is precious, and that whatever it is that they’re sharing, or trying to, is worthwhile. No matter how long or how short they’re able to keep it. That’s what’s unnerving about Alfons sometimes. Sometimes, meeting his gaze feels like watching an hourglass and somehow feeling the sand slip through your fingers, even as you see it’s still protected by the glass. 

Edward sits up straight and, instead of standing to acquiesce the requests to go to bed, he stays seated and pulls Alfons into a somewhat clumsy embrace, his head coming to rest against his abdomen. After a moment of recalibration, Alfons wraps his arms around his shoulders and gives them a squeeze, lays his cheek against the top of his head this time, and whispers — Edward almost misses hearing it — _Are you feeling okay?_

Edward nods. 

He should be, perhaps — at any given moment — but he’s just not ready to let go.

The following Sunday morning, Edward’s still fast asleep until the very instant he stirs awake from a sudden weight on his hips. Blearily — it feels like his eyelids are glued together — he musters significant effort to rub at them enough to get his eyes fit for service, and determines that, indeed, Alfons has decided to wake him by— sitting on him. Straddling him, weirdly; in his dream, whatever it was that he was dreaming, he’d suddenly felt pressure from something, like something had fallen onto him, but in slow-motion… a bookcase, perhaps? It’s a bit of a relief to find that it isn’t that, but also… why…?

“Good morning,” Alfons practically sings. He looks ridiculous, especially now that Edward’s vision has stopped being blurry and he can take the whole picture in: his hair’s sticking up all over the place and he’s still in his nightshirt and underwear, and he’s grinning like he’s just received word that they’ve won the lottery, which is — regrettably — terribly unlikely. 

“What time is it?” Edward asks around a yawn, “and… hi.” 

“Past nine. I couldn’t wait longer, sorry— I got it to work.” 

Another yawn; still processing. “Got what to work?” 

“The gramophone, of course!” Delighted, he gives Edward’s chest a playful thump. “Come on, get ready and I’ll show you.” 

“Isn’t the point that you can hear it without being in the same room?” Edward counters, but he starts to sit up anyway, expecting Alfons to oblige and get off of him, which he doesn’t do. “C’mon, budge, then. I can’t get up like this.” 

“Okay,” Alfons laughs, but he still doesn’t move. 

“What’s with you?” Edward asks, just a fraction annoyed and mostly bemused. He can still twist and reach for his arm in this compromised position, which he does, and which works to prompt Alfons to finally get up — he knows that Edward is sturdy, but even after two years, he’s still afraid of harming the prosthetic limbs, especially since Hohenheim has been gone and they’re technically in short supply —, though he hovers by the bed a moment. 

“I’ll be right out,” Edward promises, waving for Alfons to head back to the kitchen— but then, having finished with the straps and flexing to confirm that all systems are go, he reaches out at the last possible second to grab at his shirt to pull him closer. 

“You look like a mad scientist.” He gestures for him to bend down so he can flatten his hair a bit. “Or like you electrocuted yourself.” Then, with a jolt of panic: “—You didn’t, right?” 

That really provokes a laugh, which makes Edward feel a little sore. Sure, it was an irrational thought, but the concern was real! But Alfons shakes his head and then disappears out of the room. 

By the time Edward emerges, Alfons has put coffee on the stove and the sun is streaming in bright beams through the window with the curtains drawn back. When he turns and it catches him at just the right angle, he looks ethereal with his light-bleached still-wild hair and his glinting eyes. Those are, Edward thinks secretly, Alfons’ most beautiful feature. He’s known lots of people with blue eyes over the years, but no one else with that color. Sometimes he wonders what they’d even look like in Amestris. He’s still convinced the colors there are bolder. 

“The box had a few records in their envelopes,” he explains to Edward, passing him a clean, empty mug for once the coffee’s ready. He also gestures invitingly to some day-old bread and a small bit of cheese. They just paid Frau Gracia for the upcoming month’s rent, and it wasn’t quite time for a payment from the guys at Claussen, so they were living a bit extra frugally until then. With distaste, Edward recalls the time a week and a half or so ago, when he left a full bag of groceries in the park… With the way that evening ended, the incident went unaddressed, though he’s sure Alfons must have noticed the money dwindle mysteriously, despite saying nothing… 

“But they’re not labeled. So, here— choose the first one.” 

They look effectively identical to his untrained eye, but Edward still studies them carefully before indicating the chosen one to play subject A in their experiment. 

Edward chews his bread with determination as he watches Alfons make sure everything’s precisely set up, last of all the record itself, and the needle… there’s suspenseful silence, and the suspenseful crackling— 

and then the iconic notes of _An der schönen, blauen Donau_ (4) bubble out from the horn into their flat— and possibly beyond: it’s a little loud, so Alfons lunges to control for that, and then the both of them can’t resist cheering with enough enthusiasm that one would think they’d just landed men on the surface of the moon. Both of them chase the same inventor’s high— the moment of exhilaration when an idea comes to fruition, and there’s physical proof of it. 

The cheering breaks up into laughter, which dissolves into near hysterics when Alfons attempts an extremely avant-garde pantomime waltz to the iconic _da-da-da-dum-dum, dum-dum, dum-dum_ from the table to the stove and back, carafe of coffee in hand, thankfully regaining control of himself long enough not to spill it. 

“You’re clever,” Edward understates, and Alfons positively glows from the praise. 

“I can’t wait to tell Frau Gracia. She’ll be thrilled. —But alright, that’s enough of that. Let’s try another one… Hmm…” 

After some consideration, Alfons sets up the second record and replaces the first in its sleeve, reaching for a pencil to label the front while they wait for the crackling to settle. 

This time it’s a child singing — a recording with words! — in a voice that Edward would have to admit he finds a little bit unnerving, even if it is impressive to have sound so clear. 

“Oh, this one’s a riddle. I remember it from childhood. Can you figure it out?” 

Edward shakes his head, so Alfons paraphrases. 

“A little man stands in the forest, wearing a coat of deep red… A black cap on his head... Stands alone on one leg… what could it be?”(5)

No dice. Edward can crack codes with deliberation, but sometimes he doesn’t have the patience for figurative language. 

“It’s a rosehip plant.” 

Edward must look dubious, because Alfons attempts to sketch one on the record’s paper envelope, under which he writes _Ein Männlein steht im Walde_ in his neatest Sütterlin script, a contrast to his everyday handwriting, so that must mean he’s writing for a wider audience. Edward glances at the plant again. It looks — no great offense to the artist’s ability — more like some kind of nut… perhaps this plant isn’t common anywhere he might’ve been rooting around for forest fruits… like Yock Island. Or the outskirts of Resembool. 

They work their way through a few more from the stack: some instrumentals, more traditional folk songs, even a Claire Waldoff(6) in her famous _Berlinerisch_ that Edward doesn’t quite understand, and which sounds stilted in Alfons’ accent when he tries to mimic it for him. And then there are a few that are either blank or don’t work. Alfons asks what Edward would record, had he the chance to — a conversational prompt, purely hypothetical, as their machine, exciting as it is, doesn’t have that capability — and he thinks about it for a while before concluding that he doesn’t have an answer, at least not for the present. If he could go back in time and record something, would it be his mother’s voice, perhaps? And if that, then what? Her singing at the laundry line when she thought he and Al were out of earshot, or maybe her words of praise. 

“It’s impossible, but if I could, I think I’d record my mother.” He decides to admit it, wanting to reciprocate Alfons talking about his own childhood a few days prior. 

Alfons seems to consider this, but says nothing, setting the blank record aside and letting another instrumental play a few bars. He closes his eyes a moment, tapping his thumbs against his coffee cup, just listening. 

For this moment, they are suspended in time: the sun still coming in through the window to warm Alfons’ face with golden morning light, he looks well, and beyond that, content. Edward knows — sentimental as he is, though unlikely to admit it — that he will remember him like this forever. There is something oppressive about moments like this: knowing that they’re being stored in another place with particular detail gives them weight. 

How will Alfons remember him? Will he? When they inevitably part? 

“Can I try to change the record this time?” Edward asks, reaching to thumb through their last few options. 

“Mm-hmm,” Alfons nods, keeping his eyes closed. “Surprise me.” 

Considering that there isn’t much differentiating detail to go off of, Edward narrows his eyes at the discs and then has to go with his best instinct. 

He takes one in hand, then another, and then finally discards both of them for a third. Thinking of what he’d observed a moment ago, he mimics the steps until the mechanism sets the disc into motion… and following the crackle and then swell of music, there begins the croon of a man's voice: 

_**deine Augen sind Magnete…** _

_your eyes are magnets_

_**und sie strahlen den Sternen gleich** _

_and they shine just like the stars_

_**deine Küsse...** _

_your kisses_

_**Verbindungsdrähte** _

_the_ _connecting wires_

_**zwischen Erde und dem Himmelreich** _

_between earth and the heavens_

_**bisschen Technik,** _

_a bit of technique (engineering)_

_**bisschen Liebe,** _

_a bit of love_

_**bisschen Wonne und bisschen Schmerz** _

_a bit of pleasure and a bit of pain_

  
  


_**sind der Motor in dem Getriebe** _

_are the motor in the transmission_

_**und betriebsam ist das dumme Herz!** _

_and they start right up the foolish heart_

**Author's Note:**

> footnotes: 
> 
> (1) Viktualienmarkt: An open-air market in central Munich, near Marienplatz (the city central square). 
> 
> (2) Entschuldigung = excuse me, pardon me. 
> 
> (3) Prost/Prosit = Cheers. 
> 
> (4) The Blue Danube, Johann Strauss. 
> 
> (5) Ein Männlein steht im Walde ganz still und stumm, / Es hat von lauter Purpur ein Mäntlein um. / Sagt, wer mag das Männlein sein, / Das da steht im Wald allein / Mit dem purpurroten Mäntelein. Das Männlein steht im Walde auf einem Bein / Und hat auf seinem Haupte schwarz Käpplein klein, / Sagt, wer mag das Männlein sein, / Das da steht im Wald allein / Mit dem kleinen schwarzen Käppelein?
> 
> (6) Claire Waldoff was a famous cabaret singer in the 1920s (among other times) in Berlin. She is well known for singing in Berlin dialect and also for her songs having sapphic/lesbian inclinations! 
> 
> +(7) Some longer-form notes: 
> 
> There are a few deliberate anachronisms (artistic liberties?) here. Firstly, Raskolnikow didn’t release until November 3rd, 1923; this story takes place in early 1923, so this time was fudged a bit. Secondly, Deine Augen sind Magnete was likely not in publication until later in the 1920s; I believe the earliest recording I could find was 1929, though anyone reading is welcome to correct me. I hope you’ll permit me cheating time there — the lyrics were just too fitting! You can listen to the short version (here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NBsMy5ZKXd8); a longer version (here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4AknC2JFdTs); the short version with some ambient noise (here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HIn9WycdAUw); or yet another alternate version (here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HxgOAfUzJmk). 
> 
> Robert Wiene was a director prolific in the Weimar period. He really did put out a lot of films. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (Das Cabinet des Doktor Caligari) from 1920 is an early expressionist horror film about a somnambulant. Raskolnikow (1923) is indeed an adaptation of Dostoevksy’s Crime and Punishment (I haven’t actually seen that one myself yet), and was praised for its artful (and indeed, geometric) imagery; and Orlacs Hände, the Hands of Orlac, released in Germany in 1924 and in the US in 1928. It was truly based on a French novel from 1920. 
> 
> With this piece, I wanted to engage Alfons and Edward with some technologies of their time related to perception: photographs, films, and music. For as much as I researched in both English and German, I had a hell of a time finding information about what kinds of gramophones were available when (let alone the timeline of the development of the gramophone after the phonograph); thanks to some online flea market postings, I got a glimpse inside, but most of them were abstractly labeled ‘1920’, so hopefully the reader can forgive some anachronism there as well. If CoS can do it with the rockets, certainly we can, right…? Though, side note, if anyone happens to be a historian or sound technician with this kind of background info… please do share. 
> 
> Also, I wanted to try my hand again at writing a story where Alfons and Edward were already in an established (romantic) relationship… but well, you see how this worked out for me, haha. It’s meant to be a love story, sort of, but Edward’s got some barriers to work out… I think that no matter how happy he would be able to become on our side of the Gate, that would still be the case. His tie to and love for his brother Alphonse is platonic here; though I recognize the photo episode is a bit Freudian in that regard. 
> 
> By the way, I was introduced to Deine Augen sind Magnete, of course, via the series Babylon Berlin. Anyone who’s also a fan, please reach out to me! I think you’ll find many influences on this piece. 
> 
> The other scene-setting characters are simply from my own mind. I hope they didn’t detract from our main duo too much. 
> 
> Also: I am certain that the disappointment of having your bakery rolls lose their seeds in the bag on the walk home transcends time and space. Sorry, boys.


End file.
